


Nine and a Half Encounters with God Prior to the Abandonment of Limbo

by Deifire



Category: Z Nation (TV)
Genre: Episode: s05e06 Limbo, Gen, Missing Scenes, Murphy's Weird Powers, Team as Family, outsider pov
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-24
Updated: 2018-12-24
Packaged: 2019-09-20 18:29:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17027805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deifire/pseuds/Deifire
Summary: Friend. Father. Savior. Con man. Lover. Enemy. God.Alvin Murphy has been a lot of things to a lot of people. One thing he's not, though, is someone who's going to abandon the small post-apocalyptic paradise he's running to help his friends try to save the world again.He's not.Of course he's not.No matter what anybody says or does.





	Nine and a Half Encounters with God Prior to the Abandonment of Limbo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [humanveil](https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/gifts).



> Spoilers through and especially for Episode 5x06, "Limbo." May not be canon-compliant for subsequent episodes of Season 5.

**Ten…**

**Murphy**

"You're not going to let them do it."

Alvin Murphy whips off his sunglasses so he can look the handsome devil in the bathroom mirror straight in the eye.

He's looking good, he acknowledges to himself. Facial hair on point. Suit sparkling. Shirt unrumpled and free of unsightly gore stains despite the entertainment downstairs. It's a look that puts him halfway between a showman and a god. Just like he's always pictured own appearance in all the times he's imagined introducing his friends to Limbo.

"You've got a good thing going here," he tells himself. "You're going to show them around, show them a good time, let them meet their mystery trucker. Then you're going to say goodbye and wave them on their merry way. You're not going to let them talk you into getting involved with whatever mess they're inevitably going to get involved with. Not even if Warren begs. Right?"

His reflection looks incredulous, but nods in agreement anyway.

"Right. Of course you're not."

He nods to himself one more time, then straightens his tie, runs a hand over his hair, and turns toward the door.

He takes one half-step, then turns back toward the mirror, finger raised.

"And you're not going to let them blow anything up or set this place on fire."

 

 

 

***

**Nine…**

**Addy**

Of course it's Murphy. Of _course_. Why would the Big Red One be anyone else?

For a split second, she considers just shooting him, but there's a voice in her head that sounds like the ghost of Lucy screaming at her to stop.

She lowers her weapon, laughing to herself at the utter absurdity—the inevitability—of it all. The laugh bubbles up and escapes her throat when Roberta Warren approaches the truck door. Because of fucking course she's here, too. Of course it's Murphy she's with. Murphy who knows she's still alive and safe.

It's Murphy Addy can't take her eyes off of, either. How the hell did he wind up looking like Satan's twin brother, and does she even want to know?

It's Murphy who's still staring at her in shock muttering, "I thought you were…" and not quite saying Lucy's name, even though Addy's already heard him shout it.

Murphy who, despite whatever else he is, is still Lucy's father. The ghost inside her head is both furious and positively beaming at him.

Warren looks from one to the other. "I'm going to give you two a minute," she says. "It's good to see you, Addy. We'll catch up." Then she turns and heads inside.

When they're alone, Addy can't do anything but stare at him. And he can't seem to do anything but stare back.

Finally, he lowers his shoulders and holds out a hand. "Buy you a drink?"

She shrugs. "Why not?"

**

Addy's never been inside Limbo before, but as she looks around at the garish red lights, the ridiculous games of chance, and the half-naked dancers, she realizes its exactly the kind of place she'd picture if she'd even been asked to describe Murphy's idea of heaven.

And of course it wouldn't be heaven for Murphy if he wasn't in charge, she thinks as she witnesses a couple of the blends draping themselves over him and calling him sir.

"Must be fun running paradise," she mutters.

He sends the latest blend off with a pat on the behind. "Paradise?" He scoffs. "This isn't paradise. This is Limbo. There's a difference."

"There is?"

"Paradise would have an angel."

Her eyes cut to the nearest go-go dancer. "You've got angels." 

He grins and opens his mouth to say something she knows is going to make her want to slug him. Then he seems to think the better of it, turns away, and mutters, "Not the one who matters."

Oh.

Damn.

She really wants to stay mad at him.

"Lucy—" she begins.

"She knew—" he says, at the exact same time.

And neither of them ever find out what other is about to say next, because at that moment Doc comes sprinting past them with a woman who looks suspiciously like the president or whatever of New-fucking-merica and calls out, "If anyone asks, we were nowhere near Holenado."

Addy doesn't want to know.

And then the woman continues while Doc stops, does a double take, and smiles. "Addy?"

The next several moments are all joy and hugs and "How've you beens?"

Then Doc's face clouds. "There's, uh, something we need to tell you."

She knows. Lucy. This is where it becomes real. This is where she hears the how and where and why of it all.

She's bracing herself for it when Murphy puts an arm around both hers and Doc's shoulders. "So how about that drink?"

Addy's never been more grateful for him. Maybe not even back when she thought he was going to save the entire human race.

"Sure," she says. "I am a little thirsty."

 

 

 

***

**Eight…**

**Marjorie**

She's hungry.

So hungry.

She needs bizkits.

There was man in a suit feeding them bizkits, Marjorie knows. Or something more than a man, who was all red and light and hope.

He'd been feeding them and now he isn't. There are reasons. She remembers being given reasons back when she was less hungry. She doesn't remember what they are now.

Dante would know.

She knows Dante would know.

She needs Dante.

She needs Dante and she needs to remember.

She needs to think.

She needs food.

She needs the man in red, but he's locked her away. He was going to bring her to Dante—or Dante to her, she can't remember now—but instead he's locked her away and she doesn't know why.

She can't remember.

It's getting so hard to remember. So hard to think.

Maybe the man is testing her, she decides. The blends call him a god sometimes and that's what gods do, isn't it? They test people.

Maybe she only needs to prove herself. Prove her love—her resolve—is stronger than anything, even this all-consuming hunger.

All she has to do is prove no lock can hold her.

Then...then maybe the man in red will be merciful.

 

 

 

***

**Seven…**

**Doc**

All they have to do is make the trade and get the bizkits. Once they have the bizkits, they can feed the hungry talkers. Simple, really.

Not that simple plans have a history of going that way once they put 'em into action, Doc thinks as he adjusts his new hat. They tend to start well and end with something exploding. But this time they've got everything a good plan needs: the right wardrobe, plenty of ammo, the house advantage, and—here, he takes a long drag before passing the Z Weed back to Murphy—just enough time for one last smoke before executing step one.

It feels great to be back in action with the man beside him again. It's not the first time Doc's wondered if they've said goodbye Murphy for good only to have him turn up in some improbable place doing some improbable thing.

The only thing even a little weird about it this time is that Murphy's not a whole new color.

Doc thinks about everything they've done together. Everything they've been through. Every time they've lost and found each other.

"Apocalypse, man," he says.

They pass the joint back and forth again before Murphy finally responds.

"Yeah. Apocalypse." Another few moments of companionable silence pass. "You know, I've missed you, Doc. You're the only person I can have these really deep conversations with."

Doc just nods, because Murphy's kind of said it all.

He wishes they had more time to stay here, settling back into the comfort of their friendship.

Now, though, it's probably time to get moving on the plan.

 

 

 

***

**Six…**

**George**

She begins to assemble the plan as they follow Addy to Dante.

Step one is, of course, finding Dante. The next steps are harder. Make sure he's safe. Get him back. Make sure he gets a fair trial. Once he's found innocent—and George knows as sure as she knows anything Dante is innocent—they find out who really did plant that bomb and get to work on salvaging the dream that is Newmerica.

It's a dream worth saving, George knows. She's as sure of this as she is of Dante. 

She's making a mental list of the people she knows she can still trust. Those who believe in the dream and those who'll have her back anyway for various reasons of their own. It's a short list. She's still reeling from the sting of betrayal and the awful uncertainty of not knowing which direction it came from.

She thinks Alvin Murphy might be on the list, though.

She failed with him back in Limbo, she knows. She thinks she knows why now, too. The secret to Murphy isn't in appealing to his humanity or his sense of morality. It's in allowing him to pretend he doesn't have either of those things.

Let him convince himself he's doing whatever he's doing for purely selfish reasons, find a way to let him make at least a token profit off of it, and she'll have him on her side, a powerful ally to humans and talkers both.

She feels an elbow dig into her ribs.

"Whatever you're planning," Warren whispers when has George's full attention. "Let me suggest you hold off and take it one step at a time."

"I wasn't planning anything," George says, which is mostly true. She hasn't exactly gotten that far yet.

"Good," says Warren. "Because if you _were_ planning something and if that something involved one Alvin Murphy behaving predictably, I'd have to advise against it."

"Understood," George says. She doesn't think she's entirely wrong about him—knows that at least she can persuade him in all of the several arguments she's got constructed in her head—but there will be time for that later.

First, they have to find Dante. Then, they have to get back.

 

 

 

***

**Five…**

**Dante**

By time they get back to Limbo, somebody's exploded all over it.

Not Marjorie, but Dante only has enough time to figure out that much when the armed men burst through the door.

He feels a grip around his wrist and then it's like he's hearing someone talking, but they're not exactly saying anything aloud. There are words and images crawling under his skin like insects. Actually it's a bit more pleasant than the last time he had insects under his skin, but stranger.

He catches _So you're Jorge's Addy_ as he meets the eyes of the man now known as the Big Red One. Murphy, he remembers. He's about the ask for clarification when the man's eyes move to George. _Her second in command. Her warrior. She trusts you._

He nods, and Murphy looks surprised. Like Dante's reacted to something Murphy wasn't expecting anybody to hear. There's another stray thought involving George and Roberta Warren, followed by a jumble of images and emotions that are all Warren and Addy Carver and a little girl with blue skin.

Murphy's eyes cut to George again and then to the staircase obscured by shadows. To the thick curtains at the top that can hide a couple of fugitives.

 _Protect Marjorie,_ Dante thinks at him on the off chance it will work. He tries to project a mental image of his wife. _Keep her safe._   _Please._

He not sure if the man hears him. Murphy doesn't react and says nothing, but suddenly Dante feels a force even beyond his own will propelling him to move toward the stairs.

There's no time. Dante can figure out what's happening here later.

He takes George by the hand and together, they run.

 

 

 

***

**Four…**

**Warren**

"So when you said 'Let's get a move on' back there, I hope you weren't including me anywhere in 'let's,'" Murphy tells her when it's all over.

Roberta Warren says nothing.

Murphy turns to her, hands on his hips. "You want to get involved, that's fine. I'm not saying that _somebody_ doesn't need to figure out what's going on with the bizkit supply. I don't want the talkers to turn Z any more than anybody else. It's terrible for business. But that's exactly my point. I've got a business to run. Money to make. People depending on me. Besides, tomorrow is Tuesday and I have big plans on Tuesdays."

She leans against the counter and lets him talk, saying nothing.

"Don't give me that wiser-than-thou look," Murphy continues, pacing back and forth in front of her. He cuts through the bar behind her, like he's circling her in some kind of erratic orbit, and pours himself a drink on the way. "I'm not doing it. I'm not part of your intrepid band of do-gooders anymore, not that I ever was. Besides which, you've got Doc. You've got the redhead. You've even got the kid again. _They're_ your fighters. I'm a lover. I'm an entrepreneur. I'm a god. I'm…I'm…don't give me that look, either!"

Warren knows her expression hasn't changed at all. Still, she says nothing.

He stops pacing. "Look," he says in a tone that suggests he's trying to be the only reasonable person in the room, "I may have a small supply of gasoline and a couple of people who are really good with vehicles. I can get you some semi-reliable transportation, enough to get you to the bakery and let your friend Gizmo go after her friend…whatever his name is." He sighs, and when he speaks again, his voice softens. "We'll even make sure the talker's body gets to wherever you want it to go. And any one of you who survives your crazy suicide mission is always welcome here. You know that. I'll even throw in one free drink on the house and one free round of Hit the Head per visit. There. That's my incredibly generous final offer."

Warren smiles, but says nothing.

 

 

 

***

**Three…**

**Wesson**

"I don't…is that physically possible?"

Wesson smiles. Murphy's friend Doc is kind of cute for a non-blend. He glances over toward Freckles, who's in the process of selecting a new shirt from the boss's wardrobe. She tosses her dark hair back and raises an eyebrow to let him know she's thinking the same thing. Hell, the guy already has a fan club downstairs.

Wesson takes a piece of paper from the boss's desk, sketches a few stick figures on the back, then hands it to him.

He notes Doc's puzzled expression, takes the paper from him, turns it right side up, and hands it back.

"Oh," says Doc, a grin spreading over his face. "Oh, yeah! Takes a certain amount of flexibility, but yeah. You know, back pre-apocalypse, I once—"

He doesn't get to finish that story because just then, Murphy bursts into the room.

"I'm gonna need an outfit for the road," he says, not looking at them. He wipes a few entrails off his sleeve, then gestures towards the black shirt Freckles is holding. "That'll work. It just needs a matching…everything. And my coat."

"Sir?" Wesson asks, even though he knows what's coming.

"I'll just be gone for a day. Maybe two…three, tops. Just long enough to help these kids find out what's going on with the bizkit supply."

"But, sir, you said if you tried to involved we should—"

Murphy puts a hand under his chin, tilts his head back, and stops him with a deep kiss.

"I know," he says when he breaks it off. "I know. But these are desperate circumstances, and besides, Warren begged me."

There's a snort that sounds like laughter from Doc.

"Anyway," Murphy continues, raising his voice a little, "it'll just be a for a few days. Three or four at most. I'll be back. In the meantime, you're all going to go with Plan 47 for laying low."

"Understood, sir."

And Wesson does understand. He's seen it in Murphy's eyes all night. He's known and accepted this was coming ever since Warren and Doc first walked into Limbo.

Murphy _will_ be back. If he can, of course he will. He and the blends are family, and family always find their way back to each other.

But the others? They were Murphy's family first.

 

 

 

***

**Two…**

**Murphy again (sort of)**

"Oh, don't look at me like that!" Murphy snaps, even though he's not. Not really.

He can't quite bring himself to look at his own reflection and is taking it on faith all the guts are out of his hair.

It's not like he won't be back. It's not like he's giving up everything—all his hopes, his dreams, his ambitions, this quasi-paradise he runs—to ride out with Operation Bitemark full time. He's just going to do this one last thing to ensure everyone's survival and the future profits of Limbo, and then he's out of the saving this world business.

Finished.

Retired.

Forever.

"At least they didn't set the place on fire," he mutters.

He risks the barest half-glance in the mirror on the way out the door to make sure his tie is straight.

He doesn't meet his own eyes.

 

 

 

***

**One…**

**10k**

"Just so you know, we were all nowhere near—" 10k begins, as soon as Murphy rejoins them.

Murphy holds up a hand. "Just one question," he says. "Is anything in here on fire?"

"No," say 10k. "It's only—"

"Then I don't want to know." Murphy walks around the bar to put some distance between them and pour himself a drink as 10k gives silent thanks for not having to have that particular conversation despite being the one to draw the short straw. "The blends'll just be another few minutes with the car."

"Oh."

For reasons he can't explain to himself, 10k stays with Murphy instead of moving to join the others where they're waiting by the door.

They sit in silence long enough for 10k to become acutely aware of another question Murphy's not asking. His eyes are moving from the stump where 10k's hand used to be to 10k's face and back again.

One eyebrow raises, like Murphy's expecting an explanation.

That's not something 10k owes him. They're not even friends, really. They just have friends in common. Besides, there's something about being here with the rest of the blends that keeps giving 10k flashbacks to Murphytown.

Back to Murphy controlling him. Back to the knife game. Back to Murphy making him punish himself until his fingers were raw and bleeding.

It had been the other hand, 10k remembers.

Even then, Murphy had been very careful about not damaging his trigger hand.

He almost laughs aloud at the memory.

"Zombies," he says by way of the explanation he doesn't owe. He doesn't bring Red's name into it.

"Ah," Murphy nods. 10k expects sarcasm to follow. A cutting remark, a cruel observation, maybe even a clever nickname. Murphy doesn't come back with any of those. Instead, he takes another glass from under the bar, pours something from a clear bottle into it, and pushes it across the counter.

10k sniffs at it. It isn't water.

"Moonshine. Not proper Z Shine yet," Murphy says, "but…hey, I owe you a round when we get back."

10k takes a tentative sip. It burns a little going down, but the aftermath is warm. Almost pleasant. It dulls the phantom pain from his hand a little.

It's not something 10k imagines ever drinking a _lot_ of, but it's inoffensive enough for him to take another sip.

"We lost Sarge," he says, after a moment. "At Altura."

He's not sure why he's telling Murphy this. It feels a little like confessing to Satan.

"Damn. Always liked her," Murphy says.

10k can't bring himself to care whether or not he's lying.

Murphy pours some of the clear liquid into his own glass and raises it. "To Sarge," he says.

"To Sarge," 10k echoes, and drinks.

They both take another sip.

They're not friends exactly. In fact, 10k once vowed to kill Murphy, and he's probably going to do it still. Not now, but one day. One day, Murphy's going to go too far again and he's probably going to have to. 

It's just that today still isn't the day.

His thoughts are interrupted by a car horn.

"That our ride?" Warren calls out from where she's waiting by the door with the others.

"Yeah," Murphy confirms. He takes the glass from 10k's hand. "Come on, Stumpy. Let's get moving."

And there it is. Of course.

10k rolls his eyes. "And here I was expecting something clever."

"Well, I was going to go with Lefty, but that seemed a little cliché."

10k shakes his head and fights an almost-smile as they join the others.

Addy, Doc, Warren, and George part to make room for them.

And together, Murphy among them once more, they walk out of Limbo and into whatever awaits them in the light of day.

 


End file.
